Childhood Dreams
by Peevesy
Summary: A man haunted by his past returns home to face his demons. (Semi song-fic, character death)


**A/N: **The song used is called '_Duetto_'and comes from a beautiful choral suite entitled '_Ride upon Rainbows'_ composed by Harley Mead. The lyrics themselves were written by Australian poet Nan Whitcomb.

There is a house on a hill, and it is often a popular point of discussion among the locals. Some folk say it's haunted, others say people still live in it, but that they be witch kind - devil-worshippers.

However, this is only half true. The house is indeed haunted, to an extent, and it the home of a witch – a wizard too, but they're the opposite of devil-worshippers, and are rarely home.

It was outside this house, on a fine Sunday afternoon, that a man appeared with a loud crack. The man had flaming red hair, was of a medium, thick build and was clutching a smooth, long stick.

He opened the tumble-down gate, which emitted a loud, weary groan. Looking around at the ramshackle house, with its unstable structure, scruffy bushes, and the old gnarled trees he remembered climbing as a child, and said to himself – "It's good to be home."

_Guided back by memories, to childhood dreams_

_To secret places, hidden by old pepper trees._

_Knowing if we climbed a little higher,_

_We could reach forever and ever_

He walked slowly to the door, peering through the broken windows, to see if anyone was home. He knocked on the door, and waited. Hearing nothing, he prodded the door with his stick – a wand – and waited again.

This time, an annoyed male voice came from the door.

"Sorry mate! The Ministry just called, something's come up. Feel free to go in, we should be back before sunset."

And with that, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

The man didn't move. He hadn't set foot in this house for 7 years, there were so memories he'd left behind, memories he wasn't sure he wanted to face.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, took the final step, and closed the door behind him. He exhaled, opened his eyes, and looked around.

Nothing had changed… nothing.

As he wandered through the house, memories washed over him. He heard children's laughter, his mother humming, he heard his father tinkering with one of his many Muggle artefacts.

He walked quietly, treading softly, afraid that if he made to much noise, he'd send the house crashing down.

The man creaked his way up the rickety staircase, cringing as they groaned under his weight. He reached the top floor and froze.

There. He saw it.

The room he was most afraid to enter… his bedroom.

He wanted to turn back and run, but he knew he couldn't. He'd come this far, and he knew he would never be coming back. He caressed the doorknob, and turned it gently, tenderly.

He looked inside, and was assaulted by a storm of memories… so much had happened here - it was their hideaway, their sanctuary. They'd plot their dastardly deeds, hide from their mother's wrath. They would sneak bits of everything up here, to make their games and inventions. This room, it was his home.

_Building palaces of fronds and ferns_

_Our beds adorned with quilts of stolen flo'ers_

_We sent imaginary servants, to bring exotic fantasies to eat._

He paused as he noticed something out of place. Sitting on his bed, there was a box, with his name on it. He sat down next to it, and looked away. Not wanting to open it, afraid of what it contained, he looked to the bed opposite. This had been his brother's – he could still picture his sleeping form lying there, basking in the sunlight. Quickly, he averted his gaze, to prevent yet more painful memories.

Picking up the box, he left the room, and closed the door behind him, and as he did, he closed a chapter in his life. His childhood was over now, and was truly behind him. He made his way to the backyard. And let the cool breeze caress his face. He couldn't help but grin as he saw his mother's garden, still the same dug up hole it had always been. His grin widened as he remembered the games of chase he and his siblings would play in their, knowing full well the frustration this created in their mother.

_We never felt a tinge of guilt_

_As we crushed the lush green carpet_

_Beneath our careless feet_

His smile faded, and he sighed. Everything in this place had a memory attached to it. Every tree they'd climbed, every gnome they'd tossed, every rock they'd skipped over the stream. This world, it was theirs to enjoy. They would play Quidditch in that field over there, would build snow forts under that tree in winters long gone, and by the blackberry bushes was where they used to play wizarding duels. The red-haired man became caught up in his childhood dreams, caught in a world long since past, a world that would never return.

_With daring leaps!_

_We captured rocky islands,_

_In swollen streams_

_The world is a venture,_

_Which belonged to us___

He ran around in a daze, recalling each special place they'd had – each hiding hole, each Quidditch arena, each meeting place. He built himself up into a frenzy – he wanted to be back in the past, and in his mind, he was… until he reached the hill. Something was there, something not from his memories – and ugly grey object, perched on the crown of the hill. As it the realisation of what is was sunk in, his fantasies crumbled.

_Sometimes I take the journey back_

_To find a trace of yesterday_

He stumbled slightly, as he walked up the hill, to the tombstone. Placing the box down, he knelt beside the grave.

This was why he had come, and this was why he could never relive his fantasies. Tears began to slowly roll down his cheeks, as he read the tombstone engraving.

A name, a date, and an inscription–

"Murdered by Voldemort. You will always be in our hearts"

Tears still rolling down his cheeks, he noticed weeds were beginning to grow over the grave, and that it was covered with leaves. He begin to brush away some of them, giving him something to take his mind off the grief.

_Voldemort__._

The very name sparked anger in the man's heart.

_He shouldn't have died. He was innocent…_

Angry, and upset, he violently cleared the remaining debris away with a flick of his wand.  In his anger, he knocked over the box, which rolled down the kill, its contents spilling all over the place. With a cry like a wounded bird, the man ran to collect them. Gently, he picked something up – a newspaper clipping, advertising a shop called 'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes'.

The man gave a cry that was half sob, half laugh, and held the clipping to his heart, and gathered up the other items, all 'Weasley Wizard Wheezes' products or articles. He placed them back into the box, and held it close, not wanting to loose any precious thing.

_Perhaps a little magic from the past_

_Can help us face the problems of today_

After an hour of quiet mourning, the man stood up and dried his face. He knew what he must do, now.

He dusted himself off, turned sadly to face the tombstone and said.

"Well then."

He sighed, and half-smiled. He was done now, he'd faced his demons.

"Goodbye George."

And with a loud crack, Fred Weasley disapparated.

_Help to face the problems of today…_


End file.
